Макс Фрай - The Stranger

The dawn caught up with me on the same bridge where my enchanting journey had begun. I was considering planting a kiss on the funny dragon gazing at me from the railing, but I decided that was going too far—a vulgar act, a false note, the finale of a play in an amateur theater. But here, in Kettari, I wanted to reach perfection. That was why I simply returned home, undressed, and fell asleep right in the living room, curled up in a ball on the short, low divan.

I woke up before noon. I felt as though someone had given me an intravenous of Elixir of Kaxar. Pure ecstasy!

Lonli-Lokli wasn’t anywhere to be seen, however. His absence made me a bit nervous. I didn’t feel truly alarmed, only a mild discomfiture—a weak mixture of curiosity and compunction about my own role in the matter, more than anything else.

After hesitating a bit, I sent him a call.

Everything all right with you, Shurf?

Yes, I’m just a bit busy, so let’s talk later. Don’t be upset.

He’s busy, he says. I’d just like to know with what, I grumbled to the ceiling. In any case, the matter was settled. It was clear that Shurf was safe and sound—that was all that was required of him.

That most important matter out of the way, I decided to seek out my breakfast. After some consideration, I resolved that Lady Marilyn could go for a walk in Kettari in the light of day. Why should I trouble myself with changing my clothes again? Soon, an elegant damsel was breaking all feminine records in the Old Table , a small restaurant where she astonished the proprietor with her preternatural ability to consume huge amounts of food. The appetite I had worked up during my nighttime wanderings was anything but dainty and ladylike.

Having eaten her fill, Lady Marilyn went shopping for a map of Kettari. I might need it in the future; and also, there was no better present I could give myself. Maps and atlases have a hypnotic effect on me, and if I had a different kind of character I could easily have become a collector. But collecting is not my forte. My things seem to spread out through the homes of my friends and disappear forever into dark corners. Even nailing them down wouldn’t help.

I purchased a small thick map with a carefully drawn plan of Kettari. I found a seat at a tiny table in a nameless tavern, sampled the kamra, and began examining my acquisition. I managed to locate my house, my beloved bridge with the dragon faces, Country Home tavern on Cheerful Square. Yes, that place fully deserved its name, if Lonli-Lokli’s antics were any proof.

After gulping down the last drop of kamra, I continued on my way. I was in love with the bridges of Kettari, and I wanted to cross the Meaire—this was the name of the dark little river—two hundred times, no fewer!

This time I crossed to the other bank over a large stone bridge that resembled an intricate underwater fortress. I roamed the city trying to find the places that had caught my fancy the night before. I came to understand yet again that night transforms the world completely; I wasn’t able to find a trace of them. This prompted me to do something that seemed quite senseless. I went into a tiny store, bought a fine, almost toy-like pencil, and marked my current route on the new map. I decided that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to retrace this path by dark and compare my impressions.

When I had finished, I looked around. The store was chock-full of wonderful bric-a-brac. It looked just like the thrift stores and antique marts of the Old City, where I was used to throwing to the winds, without much effort, the better part of my enormous salary. This store, too, brought out the spendthrift in me, and I dreamily fumbled through my pockets.

Oh, goodness! I suddenly remembered that the money for traveling expenses, our abundant expense account, was in a pouch strapped firmly to the belt of the wayward Lonli-Lokli, still missing in action. Just yesterday it had seemed like such a safe, reliable place for it. In my pockets I had only a bit of change—not more than ten crowns. Any resident of the Capital would consider that to be a veritable fortune, but not I. Almost thirty years of modest, humble making-do hadn’t done me any good, and I was now going through an extended period of pathological squandering. I had a physical need to throw money away, and the habit of keeping track of expenses, weighing what I could or could not afford, gave me a headache. Berating myself for being a brainless moron, I looked around helplessly. Well, it was impossible to leave such a marvelous place without a souvenir. All the more since my eyes had alighted on yet another map of Kettari, embroidered on a delicate piece of leather, a true work of art.

“How much is this little trifle?” I casually asked the proprietor, who was watching me intently.

“Just three crowns, miss,” he replied saucily.

The price was outrageous. Even in the Capital things made in the Code Epoch were cheaper.

I frowned. “For some reason it seems to me that even one crown would be too much. But one I’d be willing to pay, I suppose. I’ve done sillier things.”

The merchant stared at me mistrustfully. I made the ubiquitous Kettari gesture, tapping the tip of my nose twice. It worked like a charm. This seemed to be the way out of any situation. A few minutes later I was already sitting in another cozy bistro, examining my purchase.

Now, I’ve never been especially observant, so if it hadn’t been for the very common practice of first trying to locate the place you’re staying on the map of a strange city, I might never have noticed. Never mind my lodgings—on this map there was no Old Riverfront whatsoever! There was, however, a Cool Riverfront, which was not on the map I had bought a half hour earlier. I put the two maps side by side and peered at them closely. They were similar, very similar, but in addition the name of the riverbank I had already grown to love, there were several other discrepancies. I shook my head in wonder. It looked like the first map I had bought was the right one. I had checked my route against it. Or perhaps both of them were misleading in their own ways?

I drank down the rest of my kamra, grabbed my enigmatic souvenirs, and went outside. I read the street sign carefully: Circle Lane. Then I peered at my little leather map. This time everything corresponded. There was Circle Lane. But the first map told me I should be standing on Seven Grasses Street. Interesting.

It looks like there’s a doggone mystery on my trail, I thought. And it doesn’t look pretty.

Now I was only interested in bookstores and souvenir stands that sold maps. I amassed maps of Kettari, haggling like a gypsy and wheedling the storekeepers down to less than five times the asking price. Where there’s a will there’s a way. The only thing I didn’t manage was to force the merchants to pay me for taking their wares off their hands.

By sundown, I was tired and hungry, and a quick glace around proved I was standing under a sign that read Down Home Diner . The tavern was on the corner of High Street and Fisheye Street, so there were two entrances. The door around the corner from where I stood seemed to be the main entrance. Above that door was picture of an old lady of epic proportions armed with a ladle. The immediate entrance was far more appealing, an ordinary wooden door draped with some local variety of wild grapevine. I pulled it toward me with a decisive tug, but the door wouldn’t budge. It looks like I’ll have to pass under that cannibal of a cook! I said to myself unhappily. But first, I tried the overgrown door once more, and on my third try I realized that I had to push, rather than pull. This is one of my more embarrassing personal traits—I always have to struggle with new (and sometimes even long-familiar) doors. They say the malady is incurable.